


… . -. … . .-.. . … …

by incorrectbatfam



Category: DCU (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blind Character, Deaf Character, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: It’s lips waltzing to a symphony of cherry balm and salty potato chips. It’s hickory smoke, crushed chili peppers, the new book smell. It’s sand under fingernails, sticky campfire marshmallows, prickly pine needles. It’s free-falling with nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Relationships: Bart Allen/Jaime Reyes, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 84





	1. Part I – Jaime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaintingWithDarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintingWithDarkness/gifts), [National_Nobody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/National_Nobody/gifts), [ivyxwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyxwrites/gifts), [bluepulsebluepulse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepulsebluepulse/gifts).
  * Inspired by [All The Light We Cannot See](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/660082) by Anthony Doerr. 



At 7:07 on his seventh birthday, Jaime Reyes awoke to find that the last of his hearing had left him.

He laid among the flat pillow and bunched-up comforter and fleece pajamas half a size too big, counting the dots on his popcorn ceiling. On his bedside table, illuminated by the light from the window slats, the blood-red numbers of a Justice League digital clock blinked. And blinked. And blinked. Jaime stared at it blankly. He had half the mind to let it keep running until it spent the last of its batteries. Then he could throw it out or sell it to the neighbor’s kid, who seemed to want it more than he did. 

Jaime didn’t notice someone enter until the mattress dipped and long, delicate fingers combed through his coarse charcoal hair. He rolled over. His mother was already dressed in her papery blue scrubs, her ponytail like an aloe-scented waterfall over her shoulders. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. 

She paused. A cross between realization and resignation dawned on her face. Jaime could practically hear her say, “Oh, _mijito_.” But he knew it was just his memory trying to fill in an unfillable gap.

Breakfast was silent. And it wasn’t just silent in that Jaime could see his fork clinking against the plate but not hear it. It was silent in that nobody knew what to say. Not his mother, as she slid the smoky sausages from the frying pan onto his plate. Not his father, who chose to hide behind his black-and-white newspaper and large coffee mug. It was as though the family had been driving a broken-down car that ultimately gave out on a foggy mountain pass.

Jaime strained to follow his mother’s words. 

“…drive…to school.”

Dread burrowed in Jaime’s gut like an ant colony, deeper and deeper as a flat brownish-gray building came into view. Hardened gum and bird poop created scattered patches on the bone-white pavement. Two flags—an American and a Texas one—wilted at the top of the steel pole, scorching those who were stupid enough to touch it. He could taste the humidity even inside the air-conditioned car. The grass along the sidewalk had been pressed down by the thousand and one pairs of feet trampling across, yet to Jaime’s bewilderment, it remained a luscious emerald green.

His knee curled up to his chest and he clutched the seatbelt so hard that it left a thin pink line on his palm. The car jolted as his mother parked. She turned around and squeezed Jaime’s hand. Her big brown eyes mirrored his and she gave him a gentle look as if to ask, _“Will you be okay?”_

Jaime nodded. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped out into the world despite every fiber in his body screaming to run back.

* * *

“I heard…ear infection…”

“I heard…dropped…his head…baby…”

“…guys, don’t be mean…”

“ _¿Por qué?_ …not like…hear us…”

 _“No,”_ Jaime thought, shooting daggers in his cousins’ direction. _“But I can read your lips, idiotas.”_

While all his relatives were enjoying his mother’s empanadas and grandmother’s tamales and all the other delicacies at the potluck, Jaime sat at the farthest picnic table, under the shade of a withering oak tree. His only company were pesky bugs and a newborn girl in a baby carrier—because a ten-year-old was the perfect babysitting candidate. With his left hand, he absently picked at a slice of blueberry pie with a plastic fork. He couldn’t bring himself to eat; not when his stomach was curling in on itself like a pill bug at every family function. With his right, he flipped the page of a book that he already read thrice, which he’d only been half-focused on. 

He pushed the styrofoam plate away as a bee started to circle it. His gaze drifted to the _tíos_ and _tías_ , sitting in a circle of folding chairs on a flat portion of the field. He couldn’t see everything, but he caught bits and pieces here and there.

“…tried surgery?”

“…Alberto said…do not talk about it…”

“…poor thing…”

“…pray for him…”

Jaime tore his eyes away. His thumb traced over the rough, ash-colored grooves on the table, careful to avoid the many splintering fragments. Most were merely the result of weathering and poor park maintenance and pigeon talons, but a couple were carved by mischievous visitors. They were all generic graffiti, like “Wally wuz here” and “Mikey + Teddy 4ever”. The latter was etched inside a heart that Jaime outlined with his index finger.

The baby didn’t know sign language, but that didn’t stop Jaime from saying to her with a small smile, “At least I have you, Milagro.”

* * *

When Jaime was in sixth grade, his class went on a weekend retreat to a nearby campsite. 

Nestled in the farthest corner of the coach bus, the stiff, timeworn fabric of the seat itched the parts of his arms and legs that his shorts and t-shirt couldn’t cover and smelled like the last five passengers combined. Cheek pressed against the cool, condensated window pane, Jaime watched the bronze dunes and rolling chartreuse plains pass like photographs taken with a shaky camera. Plastic bags roamed the ditches like jellyfish in an ocean trench, passing over decomposing roadkill and the rusted remnants of previous car wrecks. 

All the while, the kids sitting up front tossed paper airplanes and split crumbly granola bars and huddled around illegally downloaded movies on their cell phones. Across the aisle, two teachers shared the other half of the back row. One seemed to chatter nonstop about the numerous cat pictures in her wallet. The other wore bulky black headphones, drowning out the first one as he graded a stack of math quizzes.

The second teacher paused only to hand a piece of paper to Jaime with a short nod. Satisfied by the one hundred at the top, Jaime slipped the quiz into one of his many color-coded folders—blue for math, right next to his _Hawkeye_ comic. His head found its place at the window again and allowed the gentle rocking of the bus to lull him to sleep.

When he woke up again, it was to the cat lady teacher gently shaking him. Bleary eyes glanced around the now-empty coach. Not even the bus driver was there. Outside, students have already unloaded their bags, the sea of duffels and backpacks receding towards a U-bend of wooden cabins. The teacher gestured for Jaime to stay close to her and he nodded obediently, though the twelve-year-old was perfectly capable of finding his way around.

Jaime rolled his blue carry-on along the mulch-covered path, the moisture seeping through the heel of his sneakers. He followed the teacher to the farthest cabin. 

The room was surprisingly cool and dry for the humid weather. The perfume of cedar coated his nose and mouth and the floor was slippery with powder under his feet, like the carpenters forgot to sweep away the sawdust. There was a bed in each of the four corners, plus a door leading to what he presumed was a bathroom. Cobwebs stretched across the windowpanes and the water-stained ceiling. Three other boys were whacking each other with pillows, flinging dust and feathers that got caught in Jaime’s mouth when he walked in. 

Just when he set his bags down on the last remaining bed, one of the boys approached him, lips moving faster than a bullet train. Jaime caught a “hey” but the rest was unreadable. He tilted his head and the boy faltered.

One of the other kids placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Jaime picked up something along the lines of, “Deaf kid, don’t bother.”

The kids backed away as though what Jaime had (or more specifically, didn’t have) was contagious.

Their first activity was a scavenger hunt. The teachers handed each cabin a list of things to look for on the hiking trail—mainly native Texas plants and animals. Jaime stood at the front as the male teacher gave everyone reminders, but he couldn’t catch any of it. When the class dispersed, Jaime hurried along. Any questions he had were shoved to the back of his mind as he and his cabinmates stepped onto the spongy dirt path.

Jaime inhaled the forest air—a bouquet of bitter pine needles, honeyed clovers, and the faintest hint of fish from a nearby river. Branches bristled and thorns prodded his skin as the untrodden trail became overrun with the natural flora. 

A dot of magenta snagged his peripheral vision. Not even ten feet off the beaten path waved a billowing sheet of purple coneflowers, extending beyond the brambles and fallen logs as far as the eye could see. Jaime glanced down at the list—the flowers were there—and then to his cabinmates. None of the boys appeared to be as interested in the same thing as they were at one of them making armpit farts. 

_“May as well grab one for the scavenger hunt,”_ Jaime thought. 

He tiptoed through the field, careful not to step on any bugs minding their own business. The leaves stroked his calves like he was a guest of honor at a ball and everyone wanted to dance with him. The pollen-dusted centers reached for the sun while the petals turned downwards, like a beach full of parasols for bumblebees. Jaime reached to pick one, but when he discovered that flowers were intertwined, he drew his hand back. He couldn’t bring himself to separate them, so instead, he closed his eyes and took in the sweet bouquet.

When he opened them, his line of sight matched up with two trees whose branches overlapped each other, forming what looked like an enchanted arched gate that only lent itself to the worthy. Jaime’s logical side told him it was simply a natural formation, but in his chest, he yearned for it to be true. Yearned to be worth something to someone, even if that someone was a single cell of Mother Earth’s body. 

Palm ghosting over the fuzzy, moss-covered trunk, Jaime imagined that he was stepping through a portal. The first thing that hit him was a gust of wildflowers mingled with pungent yet sweet rotting leaves, accompanied by freshwater—a smell he didn’t realize existed until now. As he treaded down a steep, miniature hill, he felt the breeze of a brook pass him by—a taste of what was to come. Jaime hopped onto a slate tablet the size of an area rug. His eyes followed the water in reverse—upstream, over the algae-slick marbles it tumbled over, to the almost invisible top of a dwarf waterfall canopied by even more branches. Below him, submerged by just a few inches, snails suctioned themselves to the pebbles; an anchor against the swift, churning waves. His finger traced over the whorls and curves of each shell. 

Jaime unlaced his shoes and peeled off his socks. He dipped his toe dipped in the stream, only to jerk back as the cold seeped into his nerves. Shaking off the initial shock, he slowly lowered one foot in, then the other. As he waded forward, the current continued to flow as though it was passing through him rather than around him, almost like the fluid of time itself. For the first time, the world was unaffected by Jaime Reyes’s presence. 

A hand on his shoulder jolted Jaime out of his daydream, as if he had a cord wrapped around him and someone yanked it back. His eyes widened when he saw the two teachers, their faces a blend of worry and ire. One had his arms crossed; the other put her hands on her hips. Behind them, a crowd of eleven–and–twelve-year-olds gathered; some watching curiously, others sniggering and whispering among themselves. Just when Jaime thought he found his corner of the world, people had to come and taint it.

* * *

Jaime got a sign language interpreter in high school.

The upside was he didn’t have to rely on careful notes and sitting in front to read the teachers’ lips anymore—that was exhausting and ineffective at best, and the only reason he got good grades in middle school was because he spent hours re-learning everything after class. With an aide, Jaime could follow the lectures in real-time and get his questions across. The interpreter also spoke both American and Mexican sign language, which was a plus. 

The downside was nobody wanted to hang out with him. Granted, it wasn’t like many people talked to him before, but his specific interpreter cemented that. The interpreter was a nice guy; polite, smart, soft-spoken—not unlike Jaime. Except the man was forty with skin like a paper bag clinging to his bones, Ben Franklin bifocals, yellowed incisors, and a mousy comb-over. He wore one of five diamond-patterned sweater vests every day with decade-old loafers that, based on everyone else’s cringing, made unpleasant sounds when he walked. The rancid whipped cream on top of the uncool sundae was that the man smelled like a Cuban cigar dropped into a bag of prunes.

Jaime took to woodshop almost immediately. It was the one class that didn’t rely on a teacher’s lecture or coach’s whistle. Noise-canceling headphones were the norm in a room full of bandsaws and electric sanders; circular saws and power drills. While other students made idle chit-chat, Jaime honed in on his work, stopping only to wipe his brow or ask the occasional question. 

And though the class had three weeks to complete a shelf, Jaime only need one and a half, so the teacher gave him a box of scrap pieces and said, “See what you can make.”

Jaime wondered what he could bring home that wouldn’t be extra clutter. His family had all the furniture they needed. His mother disliked wooden bowls and utensils, so that was out of the question too. 

The interpreter offhandedly signed, “My sister is way better at this than me.”

Jaime snapped his fingers and signed back, “That’s it!”

He snapped on his goggles flipped to an empty notebook page. Grabbing a ruler and a pen, Jaime sketched out a rough outline—four layers should be enough. Then he measured the pale plywood, marked it, and got to work. He cut the pieces according to the Sharpie lines while the interpreter fetched a hammer and nails. Jaime wiped the powdered sugar sawdust onto his thick canvas apron and began to sand the birchwood pieces, ignoring the strange glances from the other fourteen-year-olds. 

It wasn’t until one kid pointedly jabbed his thumb in Jaime’s direction and said something to their friend and the friend replied with a simper did Jaime turn to the interpreter and ask, “What are they saying?”

The man winced. “Do I have to tell you?”

“Yes,” Jaime replied. “That’s your job.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Jaime signed, exasperated. “Oh my God, just tell me!”

The interpreter pursed his lips before signing, “The first one asked, ‘Is that a dollhouse?’”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“The second one said, ‘Looks like he’s both a retard and a fag.’”

Turning back to his project, hot mist clouded Jaime’s eyes. He blinked rapidly, forcing it back before it could condense into rain.

“I’m sorry,” signed the interpreter. “Kids can be cruel.”

Jaime waved him off. As if flipping a switch in his brain, all emotional input and output ceased. It was just him and his sister’s gift. 

The frame was assembled by the end of that class period. It was sanded and stained by the next day. The day after that, he shaped the furniture pieces, added details, and crafted wooden dolls with moveable joints and a smiley face carved by a wood gouge. The door swung on a spare hinge and the windows slid up and down and each room’s ceiling had a raised dot to represent the lights. 

On the last shelf building day, Jaime borrowed some acrylics from the art room for the finishing touched. He picked russet for the ridged shingle roof—just like the roof of his house. He painted the kitchen a burnt orange—also like his house. The living room was a neutral gray with darker furniture to match. Jaime’s room had navy walls with a shelf full of comics and toy box with action figures that he hadn’t played with for ages. For his parents’ room, he painted a light white-and-yellow pattern similar to their floral wallpaper. Milagro’s was ballerina pink with a tea party set in the middle. 

The dolls were something Jaime took extra care in. He even went as far as to use his mother’s sewing machine at home to make tiny garments resembling each person’s favorite outfit—his mother’s polka dot dress and sunhat; his father’s bowling shirt and socks with sandals; Milagro’s tutu and tiara; Jaime’s signature sweatshirt and jeans. The most important part, in Jaime’s opinion, were the copper wires threaded through each limb, from the knees to the torso, down the shoulders, to the tips of each of the fingers. The only difference between the replica and his real family was that the replica dolls were all holding up their first initials in ASL.

* * *

He contemplated going to the school dance. It was supposedly a rite of passage for American high schoolers, but he didn’t see the point in going by himself.

 _“Next time I’ll find a date,”_ he thought.

That was what he told himself the following year. And the year after that.

* * *

As he pushed forward on his skateboard, Jaime texted his mother, **_“Yeah, I know it’s almost curfew, Mom, but I’m practically home. I’m taking a shortcut across the Kord parking lot now. Hasta pronto.”_ **

The sixteen-year-old was cruising along the smooth asphalt when a blast like a red-hot boxing glove slammed his body backward. His forearms stung as it rubbed against the concrete. The flare plunged his vision into darkness, and in those split seconds Jaime couldn’t tell whether it blinded him or knocked him out. Liquid copper smeared the inside of his mouth and trickled from a pencil-thick gash below his hairline. 

He blinked several times before his vision crept back. The duplicate Kord Industries warehouses merged into a single monstrosity of broken glass and blazing beams, as though a demon was summoned from the ninth circle of Hell. Eyes wide and heart pounding, Jaime scrambled away from the raining plaster and ash. 

Jaime yelped and pulled off his shirt upon seeing the tiny flame. The shoulder it was on glowed pink, bordering a second-degree burn. The shirt fizzled out as soon as hit the rain-damp ground. Next to the heap, a glint caught Jaime’s attention. His hand found the object—a sleek, rich blue, metallic insect-shaped thing, still warm from the explosion. Jaime arched an eyebrow.

The bug sprang to life. It skittered up Jaime’s arm, past the burn, until its six legs sunk between his shoulder blades. Searing hot pain coursed through his nerves, as though a monster’s claw was ripping his spine out. A migraine unlike any other rippled through his skull. The cut on his head closed; the burn faded. Tendrils snaked around his torso, followed by armor plates covering his body. A shell-like helmet and mask formed over his head.

Jaime nearly passed out when a voice spoke.

**[Greetings, Jaime Reyes. I am Khaji Da. I have selected you to be my new host.]**

His thoughts raced. _“What’s happening? Why can I hear again?”_

**[I am a scarab of the Reach who can grant you a unique physiology. You can hear me because I bypass your sensory organ structures.]**

_“Wait, you’re in my head?!?”_

**[Precisely.]**

_“Díos mio, my parents are gonna kill me.”_

* * *

Never in a million years did Jaime think his breath of fresh air would come because of an alien parasite. 

Right away, the Young Justice team got to work helping Jaime settle in. Nightwing and Robin gave him the grand tour in sign language—because Batman was the only League member who taught his protogés. 

The air flowed through the hall like a wind tunnel as they approached a door.

“This is your room,” Robin signed. “If you ever need a place to stay, it’ll be here.”

Nightwing added, “That’s the end of the tour. Any questions?”

Jaime shook his head. “I’ll let you know. Thanks!”

As soon as the two batboys left, Jaime closed the door and flopped onto the queen-sized bed like a snow angel, beaming from ear to ear.

 _“Finally,”_ he thought, staring at the smooth white ceiling. _“Things are gonna be different.”_

* * *

Jaime tossed the sweat-soaked towel into the laundry bin and inputted his locker combination. Now was his favorite part: post-training snacks. 

But to Jaime’s confusion, when he pushed aside his spare clothes and backpack, his Chicken Whizees bag was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he forgot to pack them? 

As Robin passed, fully dressed, he signed, “Team’s in the grotto. Feel free to join.”

Gazing up at the ten-foot holograms of fallen heroes—Tula, the second Robin, Jaime’s predecessor—the teen wondered if they were anything other than figureheads to the public. Would the public stop to ask how Blue Beetle was doing? Or did they only care when the heroes save them from another world-ending catastrophe? Jaime shivered and pulled his sweatshirt closer. It didn’t help that he entered the cave with hair half wet from a shower.

The team members’ heads snapped towards something, so naturally, Jaime followed. The first thing he saw was a red-and-orange bag—his Chicken Whizees! Holding the bag was a short boy with a ginger parachute of hair and a smattering of freckles, like someone spilled brown beads all over his pale skin. The ones on his face were cut off by a pair of red plastic sunglasses concealing his eyes. 

Jaime dragged the boy aside and began signing furiously, not waiting for a batkid to catch up and interpret. 

The boy stared ahead, almost as if looking through Jaime, while continuing to pop Chicken Whizees into his mouth. Jaime stopped. Why wasn’t the kid reacting? Even if Jaime didn’t sign, the annoyance on his face was abundant. 

Batgirl handed the kid a white cane and Jaime felt like the stupidest person on the planet.

She turned to Jaime and signed, “You were saying?”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed. “He still stole my Chicken Whizees.”

Batgirl said something to the kid, who nodded and replied. 

She then signed, “Bart says it’s not stealing, it’s ‘scavenger rights’. Also…” She tilted her head at Bart like, “ _Are you sure?”._ He nodded enthusiastically.

Batgirl signed, “He doesn’t see what the big deal is.”

Bart grinned and his lips began to move like a bullet train.

“He’s offering to get you a new one,” Batgirl translated. “You guys can hang out. It’ll be… ‘crash’.”

Bart said something else. 

Batgirl sighed and added, “He’s asking if you have any money.”

* * *

It started with a shoulder tap. 

Two taps, to be exact. A simple “excuse me” or “you’re in the way”, depending on how it was done. Bart would pause whatever he was doing, step aside, and let Jaime get to the kitchen or bathroom or briefing room or whatever. 

That was the extent of their one-on-one interactions for the first three weeks. Of course, that didn’t stop the speedster from dropping terrible puns and forcing the Bats to translate it for Jaime.

“We’ll blindside those bad guys.”

“Eye have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“See what I mean?”

It was contagious too. Jaime fell victim to it during a debriefing. Superboy was explaining how to raid a Light warehouse and Jaime knew there was a better way to do it.

He signed, “Hear me out.”

As soon as the words left Batgirl’s mouth, the corners of her domino crinkled and she doubled over against the metal table. The rest of the team joined in. Even the normally stoic Robin cracked a smile. 

Jaime jabbed a finger in Bart’s direction. “You! You did this to me!”

One signal turned into two.

They had the “move over” shoulder tap. Then, for reasons Jaime couldn’t remember, they added a shoulder hold—not grab, a four-finger hold—for “wait” or “hang on”. 

The soft cotton shirt or stretchy suit spandex warmed Jaime’s fingers like a coal that’d been separated from a firepit for several minutes. His eyebrows furrowed the first time he placed his hand on Bart’s shoulder; his bones made clear mountains and ridges under Jaime’s fingertips. Likewise, when Bart touched Jaime’s shoulders, the younger boy’s fingers were tiny compared to Jaime’s muscles.

Jaime tried not to complain about stolen Chicken Whizees after that.

They had “go” and “stay”. Jaime wasn’t sure what to label this third one.

An arm extended out front, as drivers did to passengers at a sudden brake. Urgent and protective. A flashing caution sign that Jaime found himself using more than he desired once he learned that Bart was a frequent jaywalker.

“Seriously, stop doing that!” Jaime signed.

Robin translated it and Bart replied, “But it’s faster” like a whiney child.

Jaime asked, “You sure I have to spar against him?”

“All part of the training,” Robin signed back. “Gotta be prepared.”

Biting his lip and crossing his arms, Jaime’s eyes traveled to the other side of the circular training arena. Bart was too busy guzzling down his third bag of gummy worms to notice. He donned his usual beige-and-red costume with tinted yellow goggles. His hair fell in front of his eyes like sweeping strokes of red paint against an ivory board. His cane was folded and tucked under one arm. He paused and threw his head back at something Beast Boy said.

**[I sense uncertainty within you, Jaime Reyes.]**

Jaime faltered. He wouldn’t have reservations about sparring Robin or Aqualad or Wonder Girl. Heck, Jaime even took on a Green Lantern one time. So why did the thought of fighting Impulse stir a dormant creature in his conscience and leave a sour-bitter taste in his mouth?

**[The Impulse is–]**

Jaime rolled his eyes. _“Lemme guess, annoying? A distraction?”_

The scarab paused as if to shake its head.

**[The Impulse is your equal in every respect.]**

Jaime lined his toes up with the edge of the circle. Bart did the same, slipping his cane in a back holster the same way Robin did with his bo staff. Jaime cracked his neck left, then right. Bart adjusted his fingerless gloves. Jaime took a deep breath. Cold air filled his lungs and quivered slightly upon exhaling.

Jaime paid attention to Robin’s checkered flag—Beast Boy’s airhorn was not his concern.

The flag waved and they were off. A staple gun formed on Jaime’s right arm, firing a rapid sequence in Bart’s direction. Like a smudge, Bart became a blur standing in one spot. The staples went right through him as though he was one of the grotto’s holograms. 

Wings extended from Jaime’s back, the breeze drying his eyeballs as he took to the air. Bart disappeared like invisible ink drying on paper. Before Jaime could react, a vulcanized rubber sole struck the scarab dead on. Like a satellite, the two plummeted towards the ground. Jaime’s bones rattled under the armor as he came crashing in a heap. Meanwhile, Bart hopped off and rolled to the side. 

Robin waved his flag and Beast Boy blasted his air horn and that was that. Every strand of Jaime’s body ached and he could feel the countless bruises blossoming as he pulled himself up.

As Jaime brushed himself, Robin approached him and signed, “Bart says not to go easy on him next time.”

* * *

Out in the El Paso desert, dressed in civvies, the city lights were naught but candles smoldering in the distance. Powdery purple sand seeped into Jaime’s shoes and tickled his toes as he hiked up the triangular dunes. A musty scent surrounded them—wood and cactus plants and crushed rock. Jaime could taste the sunset on his lips; like blueberry jam and canned peach syrup. It was just him, the elements, and for the first time since they met, Bart Allen. 

The ball of Bart’s cane grazed over the sand and rock fragments like a metal detector. Sunglasses rested on his face and his hair was pulled back with a black scrunchie he borrowed from Wonder Girl. 

Jaime made it to the top first, finding a large boulder to sit on. He watched, head cocked, as Bart hopped from stone to stone. Bart stopped to feel around, but didn’t hesitate to take the next right step or left shuffle. It wasn’t that which piqued Jaime’s curiosity—he knew firsthand Bart’s skills weren’t to be doubted. Rather, Jaime wondered why Bart asked to come over after training. They couldn’t speak to each other. Jaime knew nothing about the kid other than that he’s the time-traveling grandson of the Flash. 

Bart settled down beside Jaime, placing his cane to the side. Right away, the rock they were on warmed like a stovetop and vibrated so much that they may as well have been sitting on a car engine. Jaime leaned back, hands behind his head, but didn’t stop surveying the speedster. 

The sunglasses shifted awkwardly. Bart wrinkled his nose and took then off, clipping them onto his shirt.

From Jaime’s vantage point, Bart’s head curved up and down like rolling hills. His eyelashes were amber Kansas wheat fields bending in the breeze; his nose the peak of Mount McKinley; his lips slightly cracked but still full as the mounds of Mississippi; his ponytail the cascades of Niagra Falls. Uncovered, his freckles matched the Milky Way star for star. Jaime wasn’t there when Bart arrived, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the time machine turned out to be a comet from a lightyear away.

And his _eyes_. 

Jaime knew that some folks wore sunglasses to cover wonky eyeballs or injury scars. That was far from the case with Bart. The only trees on the barren plain were the spiked conifers in his irises. The only oasis in the desert was the liquid emerald swirling his pupil like a whirlpool. It was almost unfair. How come something so stunning belonged to the one person who couldn’t see it?

The lowest, nearly unnoticeable tremor caught Jaime’s attention. Bart’s knuckles rapped methodically against the stone. 

One short and two long; one short. Pause. One long, two short. And so on. It didn’t take much to piece together.

_“Khaji Da, can you translate Morse code?”_

**[Translating…]**

Strung together, it said, “We didn’t have stars in the future."

As the scarab imported a Morse code key into Jaime’s memory, he began spelling out a reply, trusting that he can knock hard enough to make noise.

Four short, three long, one short and two long. Pause. Long-short-long-short, three long, two long, one short.

“How come?”

“Pollution.”

Jaime propped himself up on one elbow.

This time, Bart tapped his finger on Jaime’s forearm—a warm island in the cold ocean. “What’s a constellation?”

Jaime replied, “I’ll show you.”

So for the next god-knows-how-many hours, as the stars crawled across the blue-black plain, Jaime walked Bart through a map of the night. One hand rested firmly on the rock, tapping out the names and backstories behind each constellation: the Big Dipper, which guided slaves to freedom; Orion’s belt, a tale of the hunter’s pride and gods’ wrath; Leo, the first of Hercules’s labors. At the same time, Jaime’s other hand entwined with Bart’s. Finger pointed up, Jaime guided Bart’s arm, connecting the dots into a cosmic masterpiece.

* * *

“…So Hawkeye blows them up with an exploding arrow, like KA-BLAM, and the bad guys are all like AAAH!”

Jaime giggled silently as Milagro made a hand gesture for explosions. The seven-year-old kneeled on the couch between Bart and Jaime—likely in an attempt to be as tall as them. Jaime’s old _Hawkeye_ comic laid on the glass coffee table, in plain view for Jaime to look at and for his sister to tell Bart in her unique Milagro-ish style. Her tutu splayed over both boys’ laps and her short pigtails tickled Jaime’s nose each time she leaned back. The dollhouse, which was previously scattered across the floor, sat in a toy chest after Jaime made Milagro clear it out of the way.

Bart said something and Milagro nodded before turning to Jaime.

“It’s C-R-A-S-H,” she signed, _“¿Pero hay algún superhéroe ciego?”_

Jaime snapped his fingers and nodded fervently. “Upstairs. Box under the bed. Don’t touch anything else.”

Savory pozole and smoky chicken and salty potatoes floated from the kitchen. Jaime’s stomach rumbled.

Bart tapped Jaime’s knee. “Is dinner ready?”

Jaime smiled and shook his head. With his index finger, he wrote, “Not yet” on the younger one’s forearm.

“Found it!” Milagro signed/exclaimed.

Bart’s lips turned upwards and formed the word, “Crash!”. Jaime still wasn’t a hundred percent sure what it meant, but if Bart smiled every time he said it, then it couldn’t be bad at all.

Milagro opened to the first page.

“Daredevil: The Man Without Fear!”

Just then, Jaime’s mother appeared, wooden spoon in hand, mouthing, “Dinner…help set up.” 

“We’ll read after,” signed Milagro.

Jaime caught Bart just as the latter was about to offer to help. He shushed Bart with one finger and wrote, “No. Sit. You’re the guest.”

Bart pouted, but relented. He followed Jaime to the dining roof and took the first seat he felt. Meanwhile, the ceramic pot scalded Jaime’s hand despite oven mitts and it took all his restraint not to let part of the Beetle armor show. He placed it in the center of the table as Milagro passed out silverware like a card dealer. 

“Where’s Papá?” Jaime signed.

Milagro relayed the message to their mother, who replied, “Should be any minute.”

Somewhere in the hullabaloo, Jaime’s father appeared in the kitchen. He grabbed the last tray from Jaime and set it own, almost like a wall in front of the teens. The man curled his lip and shook his head at Bart’s sunglasses and cane. 

The family sat down, said grace, and dug in—Milagro keeping one hand free.

Several minutes passed before Jaime’s father said, _“Veo que hiciste un amigo.”_

 _“Sí,”_ Jaime signed.

He gently nudged Bart, who introduced himself.

The man turned to Jaime. _“¿No pudiste encontrar un amigo normal?”_

Mouth agape, Jaime signed, “What the heck?!?”

His father shrugged. _“Solo digo, necesitas amigos que no sean…”_

“Who aren’t what, Dad?” Jaime demanded.

Milagro’s face contorted as they went back and forth, hitting into each other’s court like an impossible-to-win tennis match.

Bart tapped Jaime’s shoulder. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Jaime wrote before signing to Milagro, “Why don’t you show Bart the comic?”

Milagro eagerly showed Bart out as Jaime stared his father down. Both parents glanced at each other and shifted uncomfortably, and for once, Jaime was okay with that.

* * *

Three short arm pokes, three long, and three short. “Help.”

In the dark, Jaime traced a ‘W’ on the back of Bart’s hand. “What?”

A lowercase ‘m’ on Jaime’s bicep. Four fingers sliding from his wrist to his forearm. A nose boop. “Movie’s too slow. I’m bored.”

Two short and one long tap on the coffee table. Three quick pats on Bart’s left knee. Hands interlaced, lifted slightly as if shrugging. “You’re a speedster. What do you expect?”

A pout and the letter ‘C’ on Jaime’s palm. “Not crash.”

Chin rested on Bart’s shoulder, Jaime nodded. “I know.”

Bart’s finger tapped Jaime’s wrist, like someone tapping a watch. “What time is it?”

Jaime responded by “drawing” a clock with hands pointed to 9:30 on Bart’s wrist.

Two short and one long poke, three long, then one long. Fists closed, knuckles clapped together twice. A gentle flick on the inner elbow. “Got any more popcorn?”

Before Jaime could reply, something nailed him on the side of the head. He looked down; on the cushion was a potato chip that didn’t belong to him. He looked out at the rest of the room—a circle of pillows and sleeping bags, among them a few teammates who suggested a sleepover. Buttery popcorn, tiny chip crumbs, and sticky candy wrappers clung to the carpet like burs on a knitted sweater. Under the low light, Jaime could discern the varying degrees of annoyance on his friends’ faces. Beast Boy paused the TV while Superboy and Wonder Girl crossed their arms. 

“It’s rude to talk during a movie,” Robin said/signed. 

Jaime signed with one hand and let Bart in on what was happening with the other. “We weren’t talking.”

Wonder Girl rolled her eyes. “Yes, you were. It’s distracting.”

“How?” Bart asked, tapping the same thing on Jaime’s arm.

Beast Boy pointed to what Bart was doing. “Like that. You guys invented your own language and now you won’t shut up.”

“That’s not true,” Jaime signed. “Is it?”

The team nodded in unison; Beast Boy and Wonder girl said, “Yes”. 

Superboy arched an eyebrow. “You know there are apps for this stuff, right?”

Jaime bit his lip and looked at Bart. There was a moment where Jaime swore their brainwaves aligned, as though they formed a mind link without any Martians. 

They turned to their friends. “We like this better.”

* * *

“Seriously, _ese_ , why am I blindfolded?”

“Just trust me,” Bart answered. “We’re almost there.”

Jaime felt a soft breeze as Bart’s cane brushed over his shoe. The woolen scarf around Jaime’s head tickled his eyelids and made the bridge of his nose itch. It smelled like old people too—no doubt borrowed from the Garricks.

Jaime pressed a finger into the middle of Bart’s palm as if it was the knob on a nineteenth-century telegraph. “Are we there yet?”

“Who’s the impatient one now?”

“Just tell me already!”

“Fine. You can take off the blindfold now.”

Jaime unknotted the scarf and gasped. All around the room, heroes signed, “Happy birthday, Jaime!”. And it wasn’t just the Bats. It was Superboy, Wonder Girl, Miss Martian, Aqualad. It was Jay and Joan; the West-Allens. Even a few League members—Green Lantern, Superman, Black Canary—showed up to congratulate him, using their hands rather than their mouths.

Beast Boy, dangling from the rafters by his chimpanzee tail, signed, “How’s it feel to be old?”

Jaime smirked. “I can drive and you can’t, so…”

“Don’t make me stick my finger in your cake,” Beast Boy warned.

Pink, purple, and blue streamers hung from the walls and met in the middle, like the peak of a circus tent. Balloons in the shapes of ones and sevens were taped to the corner of every table, their static electricity making the hairs of anyone who passed by stick up like Albert Einstein. A two-tiered chocolate cake sat in the middle of the snack table; circling it was all of Jaime’s favorite foods. And only one person knew what they were.

The smile on Jaime’s face widened and his chest fluttered.

He placed his hand on top of Bart’s. “Thank you.”

“It’s all crash.” Bart hesitated before continuing. “I have something to ask you.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Your school’s got that dance, right?”

The older boy paused. “Yes. Why?”

“I was wondering…” 

Bart drew his hands away and mumbled something. His lips moved fast, but Jaime caught, “Hope I’m doing this right.”

The speedster lifted his fingers, moving them methodically. Jaime’s eyes widened as he instantly recognized the fingerspelling.

“Will you go to the dance with me?”

* * *

Everything. 

He couldn’t pinpoint it before, but laying in bed, surrounded by Hostess cupcake wrappers and empty soda bottles and unraveled bow ties, Jaime realized that, like the speedster, Bart’s scent couldn’t be tied down to a single piece of the universe. Rather, Bart smelled like every food he’s eaten and every place he’s run to and everything he’s done. He smelled like pancakes and Chicken Whizees and pumpkin pie. Like Pacific salt and French lavender. Like Cairo, Cuernavaca, the Australian Outback. Like musty warehouse raids and coastal recon missions and the time they went to Comic-Con as Hawkeye and Daredevil. And among those was something which the mere thought of enveloped Jaime in warmth. Taquitos. Crocheted throw blankets. Desert sands.

Bart felt around until he found Jaime’s hand. “Hey, Blue?”

Jaime blinked. _“¿Sí?”_

“What are we?”

Jaime wound his arms around Bart’s waist. Slowly, searching through the dark for any signal to stop. When he didn’t see one, Jaime leaned forward and rested his chin on Bart’s shoulder, taking another whiff. One hand traveled until it found Bart’s one—hardened like rock, soft as silk.

Jaime answered, “Whatever you want us to be.”

He stifled a yawn. The sugar crash was catching up.

Bart asked, “How did you lose your hearing?”

Taking a deep breath, Jaime replied, “It’s a genetic thing. I started losing it in kindergarten. It was fully gone two years later.” He paused. “How did you lose your sight?”

There was a pause as Bart shuffled closer, wrapping his spindly arms around Jaime’s torso. Bart didn’t say anything first, and that worried Jaime.

_“¿Cariño?”_

Tracing along the scarab, Bart smiled softly. “Don’t worry about it.”


	2. Part II – Bart

Eight paces.

Nine paces. 

Ten.

Seven-year-old Bart Allen reached out in front of him. His tiny fingers barely wrapped around the smooth, apple-sized doorknob. The mechanism clicked. The hinge squeaked. Then there was a soft breeze. 

Left and right, left and right, was how Bart’s cane swept. The frigid bunker seeped through his clothes as he made his way across the room. A faint paper musk drifted to his nose.

_Thunk!_

A sharp pain rippled through his forehead. He fell back, tailbone hitting the rock-hard floor. The cane clattered as rolled out of his hand. Bart felt around, but it was nowhere to be found. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Help!” he cried. “I can’t find my cane!”

A pair of hands—smooth, long-nailed, smelling of perfume powder and pen ink—lifted him and pulled him close. 

Rocking him back and forth, a young woman spoke in a hushed coo. “You’re okay. I got you, baby.”

Bart buried his cheek in her hollow collarbone. Her rayon shirt was like wind between his fingertips.

He sniffled. “I just wanted to read a story, Mom.”

“I know,” she said, “but you need to practice being more careful. Remember what I told you?”

“Use my sniffer and hearers and feelers,” Bart recited.

She tapped the side of Bart’s head. “And most importantly…” 

“My thinker. I know. Can I pick a book now?”

She set him down and handed him the cane. “Of course. I love hearing you read. Which one do you want?”

Bart’s fingers walked over the spines, each one a hill under his fingers. Some had ribbons wrapped around; others flecks of gold. All were soft; cotton-like to the touch. Scavenged at some point or another and read over and over. Each of the bunker’s inhabitants had a favorite. Bart’s mother loved _Sense and Sensibility_ ; his father was partial to _Around The World In Eighty Days_ ; _Origin of Species_ was his cousin Wally’s favorite; _1984_ was the beloved gift of their family friend Nathaniel. 

But Bart?

His thumb traced the worn-down Braille before he pulled the book off the shelf.

A rocking chair squeaked. “Excellent choice, as always.”

Bart crawled onto her lap. His tiny body nuzzled against hers. When opened, the book was almost the size of the boy. 

Fingers at the top of the heavy paper, Bart began.

“The Time Traveler—for so it will be convenient to speak of him—was expounding a recondite matter to us…”

* * *

On his eighth birthday, Bart awoke to a hoof-like _clop_ on his bedside table. His eyelids snapped open and he scrambled to reach for the item, hair falling in his face.

His fingers clasped around a rectangular wooden case. He turned the seemingly smooth object in his hands until he came to one of the short ends. Bart instantly skimmed the “reverse Braille”—indents carved by a dull drill bit. He then flipped it back to the original orientation. With his pinky nail, he pried off a stamp-sized wooden square. His fingers ran over a metal knob encircled with ridges.

 _“A combination lock,”_ he thought. _“It has to be.”_

Bart held the contraption to his ear. Carefully, he turned the lock, listening for the almost inaudible clicks. Right ten, left nineteen, right nine, then back to the starting point. 

The item cracked open like an oyster. 

A man laughed—a rumble from deep in his gut. “Two minutes and sixteen seconds. I better up my game.”

Something fuzzy—a cheap velvet knockoff—lined the inside. Resting inside, Bart could discern a plastic outer rim and something glass, but that was it.

“What is it?” Bart asked.

The mattress dipped. “Lemme show you. Close your eyes.”

“Seriously, Dad?”

The man chuckled. “I’m just messing with you.”

He slid something onto Bart’s face, hooking around his ears and resting on the bridge of his nose. “Found these in a ghost town the other day. Fixed them up and _viola_.”

“They’re a little big,” Bart commented.

A large, calloused hand ruffled the child’s hair. “You’ll grow into them.”

* * *

“Alright, Bart. For our next exercise, I hid a box of crackers somewhere in the room. I want you to use your senses to find it. If you find it, you can have it. Understood?”

The nine-year-old’s mouth watered at the thought of having an entire pack of food to himself. But the task also confused him. 

Bart tilted his head. “Why do I have to do this?” 

His mother knelt and brushed the hair out of his face. “Because one day your father and I won’t be there to look out for you. As a parent, it’s my job to make sure you’re equipped to make it on your own.”

He nodded and slowly let go of her hand. 

“And…” A stopwatch clicked. “Go!”

Bart grasped his cane and began his sweep.

_Bump._

The ball of the cane hit something with a dull _thud_. Tracing his cane over it, Bart identified the slate-carved island. 

“Okay, Bart,” he said to himself. “You’re in the kitchen. Where could it be hidden?”

_Ting._

Trash can. Too small for an unfolded box.

Bart lifted his cane and scanned the shelves, muttering to himself. He ran over half-full soup cans, floppy rice bags, family-sized jars, plastic cutlery. A mixing bowl tolled like a bell. Bottles chimed in an arpeggio. 

Lowering the cane, Bart scratched his head.

_Use your sniffer._

He inhaled. Grease. Burnt oven bits. Disinfectant. Salt.

_Now use your hearers._

The buzzing of a fly. The _tick-tick-tick_ of his mother’s stopwatch. The muffled hum from a vent. Crawling on all fours, Bart followed the latter to a corner under the sink.

_And your feelers._

The vent slats were large enough to slip his fingers through. They brushed against cardboard.

_But most importantly…_

Bart withdrew his fingers and groped around until he found a heavy container. When he shook it, a hundred tiny pieces rattled. He unlatched it and turned each item over in his fingers. Pencil stub. Double-A battery. Glue bottle. 

His hand closed around a rusty coin. He brought it to each corner of the vent. The screws squeaked like chalk on a blackboard. Righty tighty, lefty loosey. One by one, they fell to the ground with a _ping_. Bart removed the dust-covered grate.

Holding up his trophy, he exclaimed, “Mom, I found it!”

Bart didn’t need his cane to find her—he just followed the airy, melodic laugh. Stick under one arm, cracker box under the other, he sprinted into her arms.

She combed her fingers through his hair. “Crash! Five minutes and twenty seconds. That’s a new record!”

Bart opened his mouth, only to be cut off by heavy footsteps and a snort.

“I don’t see the point in any of this,” an older man sneered. “Our resources are already limited.”

There was a slight breeze as his mother whirled around. He hugged the items close, as if the man might snatch his earnings.

“Say that again,” she demanded.

The guy scoffed. “It’s every man for himself out there. That cripple wouldn’t last a day, Meloni.”

_WHACK!_

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she fumed. “You know what happened to those who only cared about themselves? They’re either enslaved or dead. Meanwhile, you’re safe and healthy in a secure bunker and you dare insinuate that my son doesn’t deserve the same? We have a responsibility to look out for each other and Bart is one of us.”

The man muttered something indecipherable. The footsteps faded as Meloni took her son’s hand.

Bart tilted his head. “Mom, why did he say those things?”

She sighed. “Take this as a lesson, Bart. We are built by the people around us and we will always, _always_ need each one another.” She picked him up and brushed his hair aside. “Solidarity is mankind’s greatest asset. Never forget that.”

* * *

Bart’s cane clacked against the weathered stone. Dust tickled his nose and cobwebs grazed his ears. Despite being blind nearly his whole life, nothing could stop the tiny flip in his chest every time he took a step downstairs. 

“Watch your head,” his father said, tapping a wooden frame.

The boy ducked; the narrow staircase opened to a wider area—one where Bart could stretch his arms without worrying about putting a hole in the wall. 

“What’s happening?” he asked, trying to gauge the feel of the room.

His father placed a ball in his hands—lightweight, round, yet far from smooth. Peaks—different sizes, different degrees of sharpness—pressed into Bart’s palm. And his thumbnail dug into every valley in the plaster.

“What is it?” the man asked.

Bart answered easily, “A globe. You took this from my room.”

“And a globe is a type of what?”

“Uh… ball?”

“Try again.”

“A map?” Bart asked. “Is that why we’re down here?”

“Exactly.” His father guided him to a table, the end lined up with Bart’s waist. “Go on. Take a look.”

“Dad.”

“You know what I mean, buddy.”

Bart reached forward and felt… wood. Soft, silky, but sturdy plywood. He moved his hand and felt more wood. 

“I wanted to do something different this year,” said his father. “Ten years old is a pretty big deal. Can you guess what it is?”

Rectangles. Cubes. Prisms. Lots and lots of them. No two the same dimensions. Some short and flat like matchboxes; others the length of Bart’s arm. Tiny squares carved onto each one in neat rows. Long lines the width of Bart’s finger ran up and down and across like a grid, periodically interrupted by circles the size of pinheads and toothpick-like sticks. One of the lines had little ladder rungs and cut through like stitches on skin. In the center stood a raised saucer-sized circle with a humanoid figurine, poised like it’s ready for battle.

He did a double-take, starting from the beginning and feeling his way through once again.

“Well?” his father asked, expectant but patient.

A medium-sized building. Five inches by six inches by four inches. Covered in separate square indents. At the top, a large cross.

“It’s a hospital,” Bart said.

The man gave a short hum of approval.

A flat circle with a roof protruding like a half-inflated balloon. Bart unscrewed the top and felt a diamond etched into the middle.

“That’s a stadium.”

He walked his fingers along the rungs until something blocked them—a canopied caboose. Several long containers lined up on a winding track. The sides flipped open to reveal something different inside each one: gravel, fabric, boxes, tiny seats with tiny passengers. Bart followed the boxcars to a building with an open platform and pillars that stretched to an ornate ceiling. He felt laurel wreaths, gargoyles, something in Latin.

“A railway,” he stated. “Dad, is this Central City?”

“The one and only,” the man replied, putting a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “Circa 2016.”

“So crash,” he breathed, going over the model once again, drinking in every detail—every window and light pole and storm drain. 

“I’m glad you like it, ‘cause there’s more where that came from.”

Bart’s eyes widened. “There is?”

“You’ll see,” said his father. “In due time.”

It wasn’t long before Bart had the entire map memorized. When he wasn’t doing chores or training his powers, he was in the musty basement workshop, running his fingers over the map again and again and again.

Starting from the corner in Brookfield Heights, he counted eight intersections and a left turn to the stadium. Then he headed south, down the Mississippi River to University Town, fingers finding the lab where the legendary Jay Garrick gained his powers. Four storm drains down was STAR Labs. Across the street were the mall and the opera house. From there, Bart hopped past the town hall and grasped the enormous Hardwell Tower in both hands, counting the floors from bottom to top—forty-one floors, thirty-eight windows each. He could practically hear the excited chatter and clicking cameras as he made his way through the Flash Museum. 

No matter the route, Bart always ended at the same place. His palm pressed into a sloped roof, and when he drew it back, his skin retained the same fish scale pattern. 

“Hey, Grandpa. Grandma.”

Bart pressed his cheek to the table and imagined them saying it back. 

“How was your day?”

He traced the faux-brick wall and picket fence that stuck up like a comb’s teeth. Instead of wood glue, he smelled a bed of flowers—lilacs, hyacinths, gardenias. 

“Mine was alright,” Bart said. “I went scavenging for the first time. Aunt Dawn and I found enough parts for a Braille typewriter.”

Bart removed the roof. The hallways were barely wide enough for his pinky, and they made sharp turns past bedrooms, bathrooms, a den. 

“Are Mom and Dad with you? Tell them I said hi.”

From the sawdust and varnish, Bart pieced together pine needles, roasted meat, fresh-baked pie. The myth known as Christmas, where families gathered around a warm fire and shared sugary hot drinks. 

His voice wavered. “I’m…”

 _Plip, plip, plip._

Bart placed the roof back on as it started to rain. 

“I’m sorry.” 

His lip quivered. 

_Plip plip plip plip._

Bart buried his face in his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

His body trembled; he was a thundercloud showering the city in bereavement.

A hand touched his shoulder—thinner, but still riddled callouses. Bart noted the smell of canvas and diesel oil—similar to his father’s, but not the same.

“Bart,” a woman spoke softly. “It’s getting late.”

Bart wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I’m not tired, Aunt Dawn.”

“You need to sleep,” she said.

The boy shook his head vigorously, pleading, “Let me stay.”

She sighed. “In that case, come with me.”

Bart grabbed his cane and allowed Dawn to lead him down a hallway. Like the staircase, it was narrow enough that Bart could extend his arms and touch the sides. He followed her clipped footsteps, using his cane to keep some distance. When she stopped, so did he.

She said, “You know by now that you’re part of our biggest mission yet.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. You guys debriefed me last week.”

Keys jingled. A lock clicked. A door squeaked. 

“From the start, your parents knew that you’d be a key player in taking down the Reach. I think Blue Beetle knew too. Maybe that’s why he raided our camp when you were a baby.”

Bart subconsciously touched the scar on the back of his head; a raised, jagged line, like the mountain ranges on his globe.

Dawn continued, voice hardened as though she was trying to keep something at bay. “Your father constructed that map to prepare you. He made a second one and entrusted me to finish it if anything happened to him.”

Carefully, he walked until his cane hit a table leg. Bart leaned forward. The first thing his hand touched, to his astonishment, was water. A shallow pool less than an inch deep. It ran alongside something equally surprising: sand. Cool, fine grains that trapped themselves under his fingernails. 

“Aunt Dawn…”

“Keep going.”

His palm pressed again plaster so fresh that he could smell bits of it. It felt organic; sharp-edged, like a rock. He pressed his ear to it and knocked. There was an echo, almost as though…

Bart lifted the lightweight case like the cover of a serving tray. So far everything about the model had been his aunt’s work, but the intricate wooden reproductions screamed Don Allen. Bart’s eyes welled up as he thumbed through two-story-high shelves. He could hear his father’s humming as he made his way through a lounge and kitchen. And Bart tried not to choke on the memory of his mother’s scent as he traced the outer walls of a mission room. 

“Mount Justice.”

It was the barest of whispers; one of reverence, as if he’d stumbled upon a temple and the gods opened the gates only for him. Bart marveled at how _whole_ it was—opposite of the rubble mounds that he dug through for meager bits and bobs.

“Memorize this,” Dawn instructed. “You need to know it better than anything you’ve known before.”

Bart turned and threw his arms around her body, hardly wrapping around her middle. 

She leaned down, squeezed him close, and whispered into his ear, “I’ll never leave you alone. I promise.”

* * *

A stopwatch clicked, followed by a low _“tsk”_.

“Eight seconds? Really? This is no time to be slowing down, kid.”

Bart slumped against the wall. He wasn’t out of breath, but he couldn’t run with the weight pressing down on his chest. The only thing he wanted to do was curl up in bed with his timeworn storybook and pretend the people he’d read to were still there to listen.

“I know.” Bart drew a knee to his chest. “I’m just not feeling it today, Wally.”

A column of body heat sat down beside him. Bart leaned in and a pair of arms wrapped around his skinny frame. He buried his face in the blend of ash and soap and focused on his cousin’s rapid speedster heartbeat.

“I miss her too,” Wally whispered. 

Bart bit back a sob. “She said she’d never leave me alone.”

“And she kept that promise,” said Wally. “You’re not alone. You have me and Nathaniel, and soon you’ll be living in a time where you can go to your teammates for anything.” He shifted and the warmth beside Bart disappeared. “You wanna honor her memory? You get up and be the hero you know you can be.”

Bart stood up and smoothed out his newly sewn spandex costume. The goggles around his read felt bulky, but he supposed it just had to be broken in. He wiggled his toes inside the thick rubber shoes and slipped the folded cane into a holster on his back. Sturdy gloves covered up to his knuckles, allowing his fingers to decipher anything he came across. The twelve-year-old crouched into starting position.

“Ready?” Wally asked.

Bart took a deep breath. “Ready.”

_Click._

“Go!”

Fifty-six paces to the end of the hall. Left turn. Twenty-one more. Bart kicked open a metal door. Twenty-four stairs, but he just slid down the railing, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Four steps, a right turn, then a left directly after that. Fifty-eight paces to a different staircase. Twenty-four stairs again, but Bart took them two at a time. Then a whopping ninety-one paces as he sprinted back to the starting point.

_Click._

“Four seconds,” Wally hummed. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Think you can halve that by dinner?”

* * *

_Drip._

A coarse, eraser-sized piece of cardstock was placed in Bart’s hand. His face contorted as a sharp, briny smell stung his nostrils.

“Formaldehyde,” he said. “Without a doubt.”

The card was swapped for another identical one. This one smelled oily, with a slight chemical edge, as though someone made french fries in a hospital storage room and let the grease sit there for three days.

Bart snorted. “Propyl propionate. Come on, Nathaniel, give me a challenge.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel answered. 

_Drip._

Bart took a long whiff and perked up. “Crash, peaches! Can I have some?”

He stuck his tongue out to lick the card, only to have it be slapped out of his hand.

“What are you, three?” Nathaniel snapped. “You don’t lick everything that smells nice. That was cyclosarin—a highly toxic nerve agent.”

“So… no peaches?”

“Oh my f– no!” the scientist yelled. “You can’t always trust your senses.”

Disappointed and perplexed, Bart asked, “Then what can I trust?”

Nathaniel moved a strand of Bart’s hair and tapped his temple. “You trust your judgment.”

“What if my judgment’s wrong?”

“Then you learn from it.”

* * *

“Alright, Bart,” said Wally. “I want you to run across the gym as fast as you can.”

“Psh, that’s easy!” Bart boasted. “I could do it with my eyes closed.”

“Okay,” the older speedster said. “Then do it.”

Bart cracked his knuckles and dashed forward. A rope, pulled taut like a tripwire, snagged his ankle. He tumbled forward, arms hitting the rubber mat.

His voice rose. “What’s happening? Who put that there?”

He jerked his leg forward in an attempt to free it. As he did that, tennis balls rained from the ceiling like hail. Bart shielded his head with his arms. He backed away, but it took less than three steps for his body to collide with an oak climbing wall. He turned and ran a different direction, only to get slam gut-first into a crate.

A stopwatch clicked. 

“Not terrible for a first try,” Wally commented. 

“What the heck?!?” Bart exclaimed.

“That,” Wally said, stepping towards him, “was an obstacle course.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because missions don’t happen on an empty field,” Wally replied in a “duh” tone.

_WHOOSH!_

“Now try again.”

Bart took two steps forward before scampering back. “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can,” Wally said. “I’m not some jerk who expects you to do the impossible.”

Apprehension clawed at his stomach. “How can I do something that I can’t see?”

Wally squeezed his shoulder. “Remember the lecture I gave you the other day?”

Bart wrung his fingers. “That time behaves like a fluid?”

“And what do fluids do?”

“Bend around objects,” Bart recited, hearing the memory in his head. “And fluids bend differently based on the size and shape of the obstruction.”

“Exactly,” Wally affirmed. “I want you to feel time running through you. Feel how it flows and bends. We’re speedsters. Time is our best friend.”

Bart took a deep breath.

The stopwatch clicked.

He dashed forward. 

The thick plasma of time coursed alongside the blood in his veins. It washed over Bart like a wall of water. Near the ground, something pierced the flow, similar to a skewer through jello. Bart hopped over the tripwire.

Time split in two, like the parting in Bart’s hair. The plasma’s heat grazed his sides, but his middle was left to the cold. He kicked up the speed and bounced over the waist-high crate with a front handspring. 

Then the flow stopped altogether; a river dammed. Between him and the last obstacle, the waters calmed. The ball of his foot launched off the ground. Bart’s fingers hooked tightly to the top of the climbing wall. His foot found a crevice. With a heaving grunt, he hoisted himself up and dropped to the other side, landing expertly.

_Click._

“Four seconds,” Wally said. “Let’s get it down to one before lunch.”

* * *

Static.

Then: _“In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight. Beware my power–”_

The recording stopped.

“Easy!” Bart said. “That’s Green Lantern.”

“Yes, but which one?” Nathaniel asked.

“Hal Jordan. Jon Stewart’s voice is deeper, Kyle Rayner is younger, and Jessica Cruz, well… you know. Doesn’t have that Coast City accent.”

 _Clack._

The ejected tape fell into a box of similar ones.

_Tch-click. Clack._

Static and plastic reeling filled the room.

_“I am vengeance. I am the night.”_

“Batman,” Bart answered. “Weird mucus lisp.”

_Tch-click. Clack._

_“There’s no such thing as normal. Love is the only thing that makes the fight worth it, and it’s the only thing that’s gonna get us through it.”_

Youthful. Kind. Nurturing without coddling. That voice was what Bart imagined pie to taste like. There was no mistaking it.

“Grandpa,” he breathed. “Nathaniel, can you play it again?”

Nathaniel sighed but obliged. He handed the clunky cassette player to Bart, who pressed the mildly overheating speaker to his ear. Bart’s fingers found the triangular play button.

_“There’s no such thing as normal. Love is the only thing that makes the fight worth it, and it’s the only thing that’s gonna get us through it.”_

Replay.

_“There’s no such thing as normal. Love is the only thing that makes the fight worth it, and it’s the only thing that’s gonna get us through it.”_

Replay.

_“There’s no such thing as normal. Love is the only thing that makes the fight worth it, and it’s the only thing that’s gonna get us through–”_

After several more loops, the tape was gently pried from his fingers.

“That’s enough,” Nathaniel reminded. “We have work to do.”

Bart relented, though that didn’t stop a pout from forming on his face. As Nathaniel ejected the tape, Bart asked, “What about Blue Beetle when he was younger? What did he sound like?”

“Nobody knows,” the man replied. “That’s why you need to be extra careful.”

“Right.” Bart nodded. 

* * *

“Bart, c’mere,” Wally said.

Bart closed his book. “Yeah?”

“It’s done.”

The younger speedster reached out and wrapped his hand around the familiar, cool metal rod of the cane. That was all—nothing remarkable.

“I don’t see a difference,” Bart said.

Wally guided Bart’s hands to the two ends. The fingers on his right hand sunk into a squishy, gel-like grip. Hanging from that was a bracelet-like leather loop that slipped seamlessly onto Bart’s skinny wrist. 

The fingers on his left wrapped around a doorknob-sized ball. His index finger ran across the circumference of the matte plastic casing. On the farthest end was a coin-sized fiberglass circle. The whole thing was like an artificial eyeball. 

Bart asked, “How does it work?”

Wally moved Bart’s right thumb to a small button on the end. “Now walk around as you normally would.”

The cane swept back and forth. As it did, the handle vibrated and the gel grip began to form tiny mountains and valleys against his palm, raising and dipping as Bart walked along the perimeter of the bunker. Though he tried to be as quiet as possible, grains of sand still crunched softly under his feet. The larger pebbles and deeper crevices were more prominent on the handle, like a dynamic map. When he skimmed over a sheet of scrap metal, a short pulse ran up the cane and to his palm.

“Well?” Wally asked. “What do you think?”

Bart beamed. “I think this is the crashest birthday gift ever!”

* * *

He needed to get out. More importantly, he needed to get this inhibitor collar _off_. 

With no speed, no time-sensing, and no cane, Bart resorted to running his fingers along the cracked cell walls. He shivered as the cold seeped out of the spongy rock and into his tired muscles. Mold and mildew suffocated him, but he was so used to it that it didn’t even trigger the slightest gag reflex.

Nathaniel was somewhere. So was the time machine. Bart needed to get to them.

He paused. Listened. 

The soft breathing of dozens of men, women, and children filled the air like radio static. It was almost eerie, the way none of them rolled or shifted. When he held his ear to the wall, he could hear the mechanical whirring of machines and drones. Somewhere among that was the Big Bad himself. Silent but deadly. 

Bart tiptoed to the corner. Where a family of four once slept, their threadbare mats now lay in a heap, covering a hole that the thirteen-year-old had spent the previous week digging. Like a curtain, Bart pulled one of the mats aside.

Body pressed flat against the floor, the thirteen-year-old barely had enough space to army crawl. He kept his arms tucked tightly and shuffled slowly. His long hair, tucked into his shirt, tickled the spot between his jutting shoulder blades. The highest part of his head brushed against the ceiling of the makeshift tunnel and his clothes rode up. Fine ash coated his tongue when he breathed and it took all of his restraint not to cough. He clamped his hand over his mouth.

Time was a weird thing. Even with his super-speed inhibited, Bart couldn’t tell if two minutes or two hours had passed by the time he reached the concrete slab at the end.

He paused again. Listened more carefully. Not daring to even breathe, because for all he knew Blue Beetle could be outside, waiting to catch the prisoner red-handed.

Bart had memorized the drones’ flight patterns. When they were near, they buzzed like angry wasps. When they were directly overhead, well… Bart couldn’t describe it other than as pure terror—his veins freezing over, his heart stopping altogether. 

He listened. And waited.

The buzzing was slowly fading into the distance. 

He listened again. He waited some more.

Silence blanketed the encampment. It provided no comfort, for it meant Bart had zero margin of error. 

Bart spit into his hands and adhered them to the slab. He slid the panel aside.

Staying on all fours, he stuck close to the wall. Bart didn’t know what shadows were, but his mother once told him they were his friend. And in this day and age, friends were few and far between.

He needed to find the tool shed first. As long as this wretched collar was on him, the Reach could use it to pinpoint his location. 

Microscopic shards embedded into the crevices of his palms as he crawled across the gravel plain. Flies buzzed near his head, probably attracted to the grime on his scalp. Bart swatted them away so his ears could focus on the sky.

Three paces.

Four paces.

Bart pressed his back against the worn wood of the tool shed. From his pocket, he drew the wire snippet that he managed to nab two days ago. 

He pressed ear to the wall. 

Silence.

Bart scooted towards the door. He dared not breathe as he slid the lockpick into the slot.

_Click._

_Click-click._

_Click._

He soundlessly pushed the door open, not an inch more than necessary. The boy slipped in and closed it behind him.

Bart could probably touch the opposing walls with his arms stretched, but with that ran a high risk of knocking something over. There was no room for fumbling. He had one shot. People were beaten and killed for far less than what he was doing.

_Humming._

_Crying._

_Catching a cold._

_Walking too fast._

_Walking too slow._

Bart shook his head. 

_Focus._ Find what he needed and _get out_.

The Reach were organized. A place for everything and everything in its place. It was perfect for Bart.

Like a tightrope, his fingers walked only along the seam of the workbench. 

Five paces.

He pulled open a tiny drawer and picked up a long flathead screw.

Six paces.

He plucked a pair of tweezers from a cup.

Seven paces.

Bart hissed when his hand wrapped around the wrong end of a knife. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, he pulled his sleeve up to his fingertips and squeezed tightly, feeling the cloth dampening. Either the pain was worse without his healing factor or he cut himself _deep_. Blood oozed out of the wound and trickled down his arm agonizingly slowly, but too quickly at the same time. His incisors sunk deeper into his lip, drawing even more blood. Warm copper coated his mouth as he sucked it back in. 

Not a single drop of evidence was allowed to leave his person. He tore off the sleeve and wrapped it around his hand the best he could.

Then it was back to work.

He felt along the heavy iron collar until he came across a junction just below his jaw. The perpendicular lines connected like a jigsaw. Bart slipped the screw into his pocket. Knife in his left hand and tweezers in his right, he pried the panel open and began sifting through the wires using muscle memory. This was the hardest part: one wrong move and he could trigger an alarm or slit himself in the jugular.

A few seconds later—or was it a few minutes? Bart couldn’t tell—the collar came apart. His wound stitched itself together. Time rushed through him once again—a freeing feeling, but one that he couldn’t stop to relish. He caught the weighted ring with one hand and gently placed it under the workbench. 

He pressed his ear to the door.

Gravel crunching. Talking. Reach guards. But not Blue Beetle. Blue Beetle never talked.

Bart listened. And waited.

He didn’t know how long he was there, crouched by the door. His thighs ached from squatting. Sweat crawled down his back. Slowly but surely, everything went still. 

The guards could still be out there. Maybe they were just standing, doing their jobs. Bart desperately wished he could peek through the cracks and find out for himself. This whole thing would be easier if he could see.

 _“Stop it,”_ he told himself. _“Nobody pitied you before. Not Mom and Dad. Not Wally and Nathaniel. Don’t start now.”_

As quietly as he could, Bart took a deep breath and slipped back into the night. He stayed low and close to the walls. With his time sense back, he could feel where all the buildings and night shift guards were.

The electric fenced hummed like a mosquito. The guards were far away and Bart didn’t hesitate to phase through and run as fast as a speedster could run, the last piece of the time machine tucked safely in his pocket.

* * *

“A blind speedster?” Dick asked.

“Yep,” Bart said. “My name is Bart Allen. Grandson of Barry Allen.”

“Noted. Not believed,” said Gar.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” Tim muttered.

Bart replied, “I haven’t.”

* * *

“I wanted to wait till after the party to give you my gift,” Jaime signaled, tracing his thumb across Bart’s knuckles.

The eighteen-year-old tilted his head. “Why?”

Jaime hesitated. “You’ll see.”

Bart’s cane’s handle shifted into ninety-degree ridges as the two made their way upstairs, towards the heroes’ bedrooms. 

Eight paces.

Nine paces.

Ten.

The speedster didn’t need to run his finger over the Braille plaques to know that they were in front of Jaime’s room. Jaime let go of Bart’s hand to unlock it. _Click, click-click._ Bart involuntarily cringed when the door squeaked, but managed to hide it.

“Remember when you told me that your dad made maps?” Jaime asked.

Bart snorted. “We talk about a lot of things. Gar’s right—we never shut up.”

Jaime laughed—one of the few actual noises he made. It was a breathy sound, almost like a wheeze, as though he was the only one who found a scene funny in a serious, silent movie theater. It sounded like how the air felt as it flowed through Bart’s hair on a casual run. Jaime only laughed when they were alone together.

Bart was so focused on that he didn’t notice where he was going until his hip bone collided with the corner of a small table.

He reeled back. “That was not there before.”

Jaime took his hand. “ _Lo siento, querido_.”

“It’s fine.” Bart’s thumb and index finger pinched the corner of a bedsheet draped over. He tugged. A soft breeze touched his skin as the sheet billowed away. 

He stepped forward. Leaning over the edge, Bart grazed his fingers along the object.

The first thing he noted was inch-high walls on all four sides, like a fortress, crafted from popsicle sticks hot glued together. Of course, Bart wondered why Jaime didn’t give all those popsicles to him. The walls gave out at some places—completely for doorways, only halfway for window frames. 

From there, Bart walked inside. He marveled at how soft the floors were, almost like real carpet. He found blocks. At first, they all felt the same. But when he went over them a second time, he began noticing minuscule details. A fridge handle here. A stove burner there. Canvas scraps stretched over a miniature couch with tiny, puffy rectangles as cushions. Chairs surrounded a table. Pressed against one wall was a dollhouse-sized TV.

Bart’s eyebrows flew up when he came across a tile square. His nails coasted along a hardened clay sink and shower. Heart thrumming faster, he walked into the last room.

A toothpick lamp stood in one corner. Jutting out of the wall like a trifold was a walk-in closet with hangers made of bent paperclips. Directly across was a matchbox bed with handkerchief sheets and twin cotton ball pillows. 

He ran his hand across a plywood dresser—it fit perfectly into his fingers. Bart could smell the work that Jaime put into its ornate details. 

“It’s beautiful,” Bart whispered.

When he lifted it, something rattled.

Puzzled, he opened the drawers—four in total. The first three were empty, save for cardstock cutouts in the shape of socks and t-shirts. Bart chuckled when, typed in Braille, the underwear read, _“Please don’t wear mine”_. 

He pulled open the final drawer.

His breath hitched.

The head. The shaft. The jagged ridges. There was no mistaking it.

Jaime placed a hand on Bart’s arm. “I found a place between our two campuses. I was thinking… we could… you know. Start the next chapter?”

Bart whirled around and threw his arms around Jaime, nodding furiously. “Yes! This is gonna be so crash!”

“I’m glad you think so.” Jaime wrapped his arms around Bart’s waist. “Happy birthday, _cariño_.”

* * *

_Blue Beetle’s gonna kill him._

_The rocket thrusters roared overhead and there was nowhere left for Bart to hide. He was almost to the machine, but veered off-course because otherwise Beetle would get Nathaniel and Wally._

_A giant staple nailed Bart in the back. Sand bulldozed itself into his mouth as his body slammed into the ground. He smelled ash._

_Blue Beetle’s knee dug into Bart’s spine. The speedster could hear the metallic scrape as the blade extended._

_Fire and lightning encased his body._

Bart screamed and jolted up. He frantically felt around, checking his body for any sign of impalement. But where there should’ve been blood and guts, Bart only found a baggy t-shirt, boxers, and a yarn throw blanket. 

His heart leaped to his throat when a hand wrapped around his wrist. Without thinking, Bart wrenched his arm away, hyperventilating.

Knuckles rapped against a wooden headboard. 

_Dah, dit-dah-dit, dit-dah, dah-dit, dah-dah-dit-dah, dit-dit-dah, dit-dit, dit-dah-dit-dit, dah-dah-dah._

“ _Tranquilo_.”

Bart eased his breathing.

_It’s not real. The Reach is gone. Blue Beetle’s not here. Only Jaime._

Burying his face in the other boy’s chest, hot tears squeezed out of Bart’s eyes. Jaime wrapped his arms around the speedster’s trembling frame. 

One hand tapped Bart’s bicep. “Wanna talk about it?”

Bart shook his head.

“That’s fine,” Jaime replied. “Go back to sleep, _chiquito_.”

The speedster nodded, eyelids drooping, mind drifting.

Everything’s okay.

Jaime Reyes will protect him.

* * *

The comms crackled to life and Tim’s voice came through.

“Alpha team: report.”

“Superboy and Wonder Girl are a go,” said Kon. “We’ve spotted two armored convoys with three major Light members and approximately two dozen hired hands en route. ETA: five minutes.”

“Beta: report.”

“Beast Boy is in position, ready for further instructions.”

A robotic voice spoke—one of the few times he heard Khaji Da. 

**[Blue Beetle is in position. Currently running preliminary scans.]**

Bart scoffed and put a finger to his comm. “Thanks for including me, since we’re right next to each other. Oh, uh, this is Kid Flash, by the way.”

The two sat together in the musty warehouse rafters—the one Bart had spent the entire evening memorizing on the Bats’ 3D-printed map. Gar was somewhere else, probably disguised as a mouse. 

“We should get pizza after,” Bart said.

“Or burgers”

“Milkshakes and fries.”

“Chinese.”

“Indian. I love Indian food. They eat with their hands. It’s a forkless paradise!”

“What about all of the above?”

Bart smiled. “I like how you think.”

Gar cut in. “Will you two shut up? I’m trying to look for the trucks.”

“He’s right,” Tim said. “We need to focus on Superboy’s signal.”

Jaime laced his fingers with Bart’s. Bart rested his head on Jaime’s shoulder, stifling a yawn. Five minutes was forever, but there was no one else he’d spend it with.

A series of clangs echoed through the cavernous room. Engines grew louder until the thrumming was all Bart could hear. The freezing desert night rushed in, biting at exposed skin. Gasoline fumes permeated his nostrils and tastebuds. Time twisted and warped in a way that made his stomach churn. 

The engines stopped, giving way to indistinct chattering. If Bart strained, he could pick up a few English tidbits—“chemicals”, “lab”, “unload”—but the rest seemed to be in another language. 

“They’re off guard,” said Kon. “Now!”

Like always, Jaime lifted Bart by the armpits and dropped him onto the battlefield. Bart felt his foot collide with a henchman’s face, cartilage crunching under his boot. 

He rebounded and rolled to the side. “Come and get me.”

Attached to the henches were long somethings that cut through the plasma. _Swords. League of Assassins._

His theory was confirmed when Kon said, “Red Robin and I got Ra’s Al Ghul.”

Bart zigzagged through the fray, speed-punching and phasing through the blades—nothing he wasn’t used to, but something guaranteed to give him an adrenaline rush. Static electricity encased his body and latched itself onto anyone unfortunate enough to come near. 

A tall object blocked the time flow to his left—metal crates stacked precariously in a tower by the open garage door. Something else hovered above that, holding a henchman by the collar.

Bart pressed his comm. “Wonder Girl, keep them from escaping.”

“I read you, KF,” Cassie replied.

 _Clang!_ The henchman’s body collided with the crates, toppling them all, spilling the contents. Bart did a quick sweep of the debris with his cane before folding it back into the holster. 

There was a dog bark, followed by Gar asking, “Does anyone smell peaches?”

Bart sniffed. His eyes widened. “Everyone, get down!”

He ducked behind a convoy, feeling his teammates do the same. 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

Wait.

Where’s Jaime?

Time flowed through Bart—round the corners, over the unconscious heap of minions, past the fifty-gallon drums. 

He shuffled on all fours, sticking close to the wall. 

As he got closer, he heard voices.

“Psimon says: put down your weapons.”

There was a dull _thunk_ as Jaime fell to his knees. Bart sucked in a sharp breath, blood running cold. He stifled a cough when the cyclosarin burned his lungs like hot ash.

“Psimon says: hold still. This will be over soon.”

 _Ka-click_ ; a gun loaded. Deathstroke chuckled. 

_BANG!_

The bullet tore through the plasma like a meteor, growing hotter as it approached its target. 

Autopilot kicked in as Bart raced forward. He handspringed over a box and with one final burst, he threw himself between the bullet and his lover.

His knee buckled. Searing metal wedged between his joints like an ice pick. He tumbled and skidded. The grainy concrete abraded his fingertips as he tried to catch himself. Bart tasted mothballs and peaches and pennies. From the sea of flesh rose an ignivomous mass, spewing molten magma as far as his senses could detect, burning and burning until he could no longer feel a thing. Was it the nerve agent?

Someone tapped his shoulder. _Dit-dah; dah-dah; dah-dah-dah; dit-dah-dit._ Bart caught the armored hand.

Fiery pain flared up once again as the scarab’s tendrils wound around Bart’s left leg like a boa constrictor. A single tear escaped his eye and Jaime was quick to dry it with his thumb. 

The older boy’s hand made its way to Bart’s arm, where he said, “Focus on me, _cariño_.”

In the distance, Bart heard things; Tim talking, Gar roaring; chopper blades; Kon and Cassie lasering and lassoing the villains.

None of those mattered.

Bart coughed. His eyelids drooped. Jaime’s touches became faster, more frantic, yet they didn’t feel like it. At first, Bart thought it was the stupid spandex suit dampening the sensation, but he remembered neither of them let the costumes stop them before.

The ground disappeared as a pair of strong arms hoisted him up.

Then: nothing.

When his four senses faded back in, the first thing Bart noticed was the papery gown draped over his body. On top of that was a crisp linen sheet. A cushion rested under his knee. The pain was dull, like a resting heartbeat. It felt different under his skin. He couldn’t describe it. A steady _beep, beep, beep_ sounded to his right. The smell of lemon disinfectant overpowered everything else. His mouth tasted stale. When he moved his right arm, something else moved too—an IV. 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was holding his hand. After all, Bart allowed only one person to do that. 

He squeezed Jaime’s hand. The latter, who was softly snoring, jolted awake. The metal chair squeaked as Jaime scooted closer.

Bart quirked a smile. “You smell terrible.”

When Jaime replied, the strokes were sharp and angry. “Seriously?!? That’s all you have to say for yourself?!?”

“Actually, I was gonna say that this bandage is itchy.”

“You infuriate me.”

Bart scoffed in mock offense. “Is that any way to talk to a guy in a hospital?”

“That bullet was meant for me, _tonto_ ,” Jaime tapped. “You should’ve stayed away.”

“You would’ve died!” Bart fired back. 

“And you would’ve been safe,” Jaime countered. “Now you’re stuck here for God-knows-how-long with a prosthetic knee.”

Bart threw his hands up. “So what? Another disability, big whoop. We’ll roll with the punches like we always do. But at least we’re _here_.”

The tension eased out of Jaime’s hands. “You’re right. Just…” He wrapped his arms around the speedster. “Promise you’ll never scare me like that again.”

Bart hesitated. “You know I can’t do that.”

Jaime buried his face in Bart’s hair and planted a soft kiss. “What am I gonna do with you?”

After weeks of physical therapy and one minor corrective surgery, Bart was finally cleared to go home. Crutch under one arm and cane in the opposite hand, he welcomed the familiar, long-awaited atmosphere of the apartment. 

On his arm, he felt Jaime ask, “You sure you don’t need help?”

“I got this,” Bart waved. “But I appreciate it.” He leaned up and pressed a short peck to the older boy’s lips.

They kissed on the regular, like any other couple, but it wasn’t until the hospital, when Bart sometimes needed both hands free for certain exercises, did they integrate it into their conversations. 

Kiss on the temple. “I’m proud of you.”

Kiss on the forehead. “I adore you.”

Kiss on the cheek. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Kiss on the neck, with hands just below the hips. “I want you. Can I have you?”

Bart flopped onto the couch. After weeks in a stiff hospital bed, the secondhand upholstery felt like heaven. Naturally, he dragged Jaime down too. 

“Feed meeeee,” Bart said.

Jaime laughed. “I can’t do that if I’m pinned down.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” the speedster whined. “Can you order something?”

“Fine, _gordito_.” 

Jaime dialed and handed the phone to Bart.

“Hi, we’ll have three large pepperoni pizzas, five triple cheeseburgers, three milkshakes, four orders of fries, six orders of chow mein, ten samosas…”

While he took care of that, Jaime adjusted their position and turned on the TV. 

Three hours and countless helpings of fast food later, exhaustion was finally catching up to Bart. The white noise of a show called Speechless cradled his ears like a rocking crib. His head laid against Jaime’s chest, taking it all in. Jaime’s nails gently massaged Bart’s scalp, occasionally pausing to drop kisses.

Kiss on the wrist. “You make my heart beat faster.”

On the knuckles. “I’m yours.”

And they weren’t married, but the five-finger kisses matched nicely with the phrase, “Till death do us part.

Bart yawned and ran his fingers through Jaime’s hair. Spiky, greasy. He nuzzled into the crook of Jaime’s neck. 

There was no describing the smell other than as… _Jaime_. Bart could feel their heartbeats sync up. He could run his fingers over every mountain, valley, and smooth plain of Jaime’s body. Every delicate curve and sharp angle. Of all the maps Bart had memorized, Jaime was his favorite.

Perhaps those perfectly sculpted features were the reason time bend so perfectly around Jaime. Each body was different, causing tiny variations in the plasma. Sometimes they were welcoming, like Barry and the Garricks. Other times, they were cold and scary, like Deathstroke. Occasionally they were neither good nor bad, just plain awkward. Bart felt a little bad that Tim was his only example of that. Time was a tool, helping him navigate around furniture and fire hydrants. Time was a weapon, predicting an opponent’s moves on the battlefield.

But with Jaime, time was none of those things. Time existed, free from obligation and material burdens. It was warmth; it was comfort. It was a haven from the cruel world. It was love and joy in the purest form. It just _was_.

Bart yawned again and traced, “You make the time jelly feel all nice.”

Jaime kissed his cheek, smiling into it. “Was that supposed to be a sentence?”

The speedster nodded, unable to keep sleep at bay. “It made sense.”

“Sure it did.” Jaime picked him up. “I think it’s time for bed.”

As Jaime lowered Bart onto the mattress, Bart repeated, “It makes perfect sense.”

* * *

If hearing Jaime laugh was the best thing, hearing Jaime cry was the worst. It was so heart-wrenching that Bart prayed he would never _ever_ have to hear it again.

Bart didn’t know the person. To him, the man was just another civilian.

But he meant a lot to Jaime, so of course, Bart said yes when his boyfriend asked him to be his company at the funeral. Bart was the silent shoulder that Jaime cried on. He sat solemnly through the condolences and perfume of roses.

A pang of sympathy rang through his chest as the deceased’s nephew—a Metropolis reporter named Jimmy—told his uncle’s story. 

The man was Fred Olsen. He was born and raised in Metropolis with a brother who died many years back. He joined the military when he was eighteen and did a campaign in Iraq, where he lost hearing in one ear from a grenade. When he came back, he fell in love with a girl in the countryside and moved to El Paso, where he became a sign language interpreter at Rio Grande High School. He died in his sleep. Unexpectedly. Painlessly. Peacefully.

Bart could safely say that death was not something ninety-nine percent of people wanted to talk about. The speedster, too, feared it, in a sense. He lived that fear four times now—having to bury someone; having people slowly leave. Physically, he could survive on his own. But emotionally?

He shook that thought out of his head. This wasn’t about him.

For now, he’d let Jaime have his tears, promising to hold him as long as he could.

* * *

“It’s nice of your mom to invite us,” Bart said.

Jaime replied, “That’s what you get for telling her you’ve never been to a farmer’s market.”

Next to him, a thirteen-year-old Milagro piped in, “You’re gonna love it!”

“ _Mija_ ,” Bianca said, “come help me with these vegetables.”

Milagro sulked. “Wish me luck.”

He reached out and ruffled her hair—a little coarser than Jaime’s, but otherwise the same. “Good luck, Mil.”

Bart always thought farmer’s markets were the same as grocery stores, with the added feature of being outdoors. 

He loved being proven wrong.

Grocery stores were crying kids and angry soccer moms and employees who would rather be anywhere else. They were generic plastic-like cheese cut into sample cubes; they were shelves that Bart couldn’t reach and labels that he couldn’t read. The place was rank with cardboard and whatever they mopped the floors with. And Bart didn’t even want to get started on how _cold_ they were. It was purgatory with a dairy aisle.

But this? This was _freedom_. The sun warmed his skin. His cane swished across the wide-open sidewalk. His other hand swung back and forth, tethered to Jaime’s. They were a package deal, navigating the stalls and food trucks. Bart smelled French fries, strawberries, dark roast coffee. Mexican _carnitas_ mingled in the air with Texas barbecue and Thai mango rice. There were the tantrum-throwing toddlers and occasional impatient customer, but there was also jokes and music and pigeons flocking for crumbs. He touched bumpy avocados and apples the size of a baby’s head. 

It was so _crash_.

He felt something powdery. Not like ash and dust. Like the flour and powdered sugar they baked with. Bart leaned in for a whiff.

“ _Cariño_ , you might not wanna–”

A thousand fire ants shot up Bart’s nose and stung his eyeballs. Tears and snot leaked out. Jaime was on it immediately, grabbing wet paper towels from the sympathetic stall owner and dabbing Bart’s face.

“Hold still, _idiota_ ,” Jaime instructed.

“It _burns_.”

“That’s why I said _hold still_.”

Bart grabbed a paper towel and blew his nose. “What _was_ that?!?”

“Cayenne,” Jaime answered. “Seriously, what are you, blind?”

Bart snorted wetly. “Am I supposed to answer that?”

He felt four fingers on his shoulder.

“Hang on, lemme double-check,” Jaime signaled. “I can’t tell the difference between the spice and your freckles.”

“What?”

“I said I can’t tell the difference between the spice and your freckles,” Jaime repeated, grabbing the speedster's face. “You know, ‘cause they’re the same color.”

Bart blinked, surprised. 

“I have freckles?”

* * *

Bluejays sang like cicadas. Cicadas sang like bluejays. Somewhere, a woodpecker drilled for its dinner. The nearby river slapped the stones like a drum circle. Bart inhaled the fresh, uncorrupted air, perfumed with pine, rain-fed grass, and the first hints of autumn. Time curved, looping around tree trunks and fallen logs. Shoes tossed aside, Bart kneaded the wet mulch with his toes as he basked like a lizard on a mesa-like boulder, his cane folded in his lap.

For the past hour, he has been listening, wholly amused, as Jaime struggled to pitch their tent. Bart had offered to help more than once, but Jaime insisted that he could do it.

When the older one grabbed Bart’s hand, it was to sheepishly confess, “I need your help.”

Bart laughed and walked over to the pile of sticks and fabric. Like a map, he felt for the important landmarks—notches and hooks and velcro loops.

“Come here,” he beckoned. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

So for the next twenty minutes, Bart guided Jaime’s hand through every step. Set up the ground tarp. Lay the body—the main bulk—on top of the tarp. Assemble the poles in an ‘X’ shape, then attach them to the body—they fumbled a lot on that. Insert the ends into the grommet. The entire time, Bart had to reassure Jaime that the poles wouldn’t break when bent. 

“See? It’s not that hard,” Bart said.

“You make it look easy,” Jaime said. 

“I wouldn’t know how that looks.”

“There used to be a lodge here,” Jaime explained. “They had cabins and a cafeteria and everything. They bulldozed it so we’re stuck with this.”

After rolling out their sleeping bags and gathering wood for the fire pit, Jaime laced his fingers with Bart’s. 

“I want to show you something,” he said.

Bart grabbed his cane and an extra jacket and put on his shoes to fight the October breeze. He put full faith in Jaime to lead him. The cane’s handle bumped up and down, warning him of twigs and pebbles.

“Careful,” Jaime traced. “We’re off the main path.”

Branches rustled as Jaime pushed them aside. Leaves crunched under Bart’s feet, each one releasing a cologne sample of their parent trees. Bees hummed, busy searching for summer’s last drops of precious nectar. Long ribbons of grass brushed his rolled-up pant legs. Something fragrant fulled the air—coneflowers. 

Jaime guided him down a steep slope, like a miniature hill. Bart heard a brook, babbling like an excited middle-schooler. A waterfall crashed like cymbals. He smelled freshwater—something he never knew could be so sweet. Bart wouldn’t be surprised if it tasted like sugar syrup. 

“Watch your step,” Jaime said. “Wet rocks.”

As soon as he said that, Bart’s foot slipped. Immediately, a pair of strong arms caught him.

Fingers traced on the small of his back. “ _Ese_ , what did I just say?”

Bart smirked. “Guess I fell for you.”

A kiss on the cheek. “We’re almost there.”

His foot found a flat rock. Bart swept his cane around; it was big enough for both young men to sit. He heard the soft _pat-pat_ of Jaime telling him to do just that. And he heard Jaime take off his shoes, so Bart copied. 

The river rushed mere inches below. Bart dunked his feet in, only to yelp and scamper back. Jaime laughed.

“Warn a guy, would you?!?” Bart asked.

“Caught me off guard the first time too,” Jaime said.

Bart returned to his spot and dipped his toes back in, this time slowly. “And when was that?”

Jaime exhaled. “Ah, jeez. Like half a lifetime ago.”

Bart scooted closer, pressing into his partner’s side, drinking in the warmth. “Why didn’t you come back? Y’know, till now.”

Jaime rested his head on top of Bart’s. “Stuff happened. Plus, I didn’t have anyone to share it with.” He perked up. “Speaking of…”

Bart snorted. “I hardly think you’re in a position to use that phrase.”

There was a _plunk_ as Jaime dipped his hand into the water. He nudged Bart to feel, but cautiously. 

The speedster ghosted his finger over a round, wet object. It formed a sort of curlycue, like a lollipop. Bart recognized the thin calcium as some sort of shell. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve mistaken it for a gemstone. A smile formed on his lips.

“This is the crashest thing _ever_.”

Back at the campsite, wrapped in their cozy bedrolls, stomachs full of hot dogs and s’mores, the raging fire subdued to crackling embers, Jaime brushed aside a lock of Bart’s overgrown hair and pressed their foreheads together. 

“You have no idea how much this means to me, _cariño_.”

Bart shuffled closer. “Tell me.”

Jaime snaked his arms around the younger one’s waist and rested his chin on Bart’s shoulder. “Let’s just say it _is_ possible to buy back lost time.”

* * *

_“We’re at the bottom of the ninth inning and the Central City Diamonds are taking the lead against the Star City Rockets three to one.”_

“Tell me again, how the heck did you know the way from Barry and Iris’s to here? Barry told me _he_ didn’t even know.”

The stadium roared as another player struck out. It was especially loud in the front row, where Bart could feel the players sweat. Not that either of those things mattered. He couldn’t care less about the view and he didn’t have to shout over the noise just to get a sentence to Jaime.

“It’s a trade secret,” Bart replied cheekily, tossing another piece of popcorn into his mouth. 

_“Let’s take it to the choppers. We’ve got a wonderful audience out here today.”_

“Quit stealing my popcorn!” Jaime signaled.

“I’m your boyfriend. It’s my job.”

Jaime started crafting a reply, but paused.

“Blue? Something up?”

Jaime quickly tapped, “We’re on the kiss cam.”

“The what?” Bart asked.

“The kiss cam. Everyone wants us to kiss,” Jaime said.

Bart beamed. “Then let’s give ‘em a show!”

He grabbed the sides of Jaime’s jaw. Lips collided in a burst of lightning. He couldn’t describe the taste other than _Jaime_. The stadium could blow up and Bart would be content melting into Jaime’s arms like chocolate, lips dancing as though throwing a party for two.

* * *

Jaime tapped Bart’s arm. “Mistletoe.”

The cold nipped Bart’s skin. Snow crunched under his boots. Wind rushed past his numb ears. Gingerbread, pine needles, and car exhaust fumes wafted through the open air.

“Liar,” said Bart. 

Jaime’s coat shuffled. Suddenly, a sprig dangled from above, brushing Bart’s forehead.

“Fine, you cheeseball.”

The two reeled in for a kiss.

“Why am I always lumped with these guys?!?” Gar exclaimed.

* * *

“I wonder what clouds taste like,” Bart mused.

The _scritch-scritch-scratch_ of Jaime’s pencil abruptly stopped.

“You’re a fourth-year physics student and you wanna know what clouds taste like,” Jaime deadpanned.

Bart shrugged and tapped, “Why not?”

There was a pause as Jaime figured out what to say. In the hush of the library, the gears turning in his head were the loudest thing.

“Cotton candy,” Jaime tapped. “I bet it tastes like cotton candy.”

“You’re in med school and you think clouds taste like cotton candy?” Bart teased.

“You’re the one who asked!”

Bart took his feet off the table. “Bet. After homework, we go flying. Taste us some cloud. Loser has to pay for our next date.”

Jaime leaned over the table and placed a peck on Bart’s lips, smiling into it. “You’re on.”

The weather app told Bart there would be an overcast that afternoon. A ceiling of cotton candy according to Jaime’s logic. Bart had changed into his Kid Flash costume to protect their identities. He still didn’t get the whole “secret ID” thing, but things were just like that sometimes. 

“I hope you have your nonexistent wallet ready,” Jaime said. 

“Fly first, then we’ll see,” Bart retorted.

Jaime scooped him in his arms and up, up, away they went. The crisp April air combed through Bart’s locks and gently nipped his skin like a puppy that still had milk teeth. As they ascended higher over Ivy Town, the honking cars and clambering construction sites faded out like the end of a song. Bart looped his arms around Jaime’s neck, hands resting just above the scarab. In the best way possible, his heart leaped to his throat and his insides flipped upside-down. No matter how many times they flew together, the feeling was always brand new. Here in the sky, it was only them—exactly how Bart liked it.

A single tendril hissed as it extended from Jaime’s back.

“Scarab’s helping with the bet,” Jaime tapped against Bart’s thigh.

“How do I know he’s not just helping you?” Bart teased.

“When was the last time Khaji agreed with me?”

“Touché.”

As Jaime’s wings beat like a helicopter rotor, the tendril pinched something and snaked around Bart, dropping something pillow-y in his hand.

“What the–” 

Bart stuck his tongue out and licked it. 

_Cotton candy._

But how?

He could feel the smugness radiating from his boyfriend. 

_“Use my sniffer and hearers and feelers,”_ he recited in his head. _“And most importantly…”_

He felt the “cloud” melting into grains in his warm hand. Sure enough, the smell of melting sugar reached his nose. 

Bart strained his ears. Through the rushing hair, he picked up the most minuscule sounds—clothes ruffling, a plastic bag crinkling. Something—sunglasses, maybe?—clacked and someone cursed as it fell from whatever it was clipped to.

After several minutes and several rounds of cloud-eating, they touched the ground.

“Well?” Jaime asked.

“Cotton candy,” Bart said.

“Told you,” Jaime tapped.

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “A moment of silence for Kon’s sunglasses, though.”

* * *

Ice cream cone in one hand, Jaime’s hand on the other, shutter glasses resting on his face. Bart still didn’t know what a rainbow was, but if it was to celebrate queer folk, then it must’ve been something truly special. 

“This is so crash!” Bart signaled. “Back in my day, we didn’t have Pride festivals.”

Jaime laughed. “Stop saying _‘back in my day’_ like you’re from the Fifties.”

“But I am,” the speedster reasoned.

 _Dah-dit-dit-dit; dit-dah-dit; dah-dit-dit-dit._ Followed by a crude body part drawing. “Be right back. Bathroom.”

Bart snickered—that was his favorite of the signals. 

He settled on the edge of a hot metal bench as he waited for Jaime. Pigeons cooed, people chattered, and insects buzzed. The Texas humidity clung to Bart’s skin and dampened his clothes. His cane grazed over wrappers and cigarette butts. The stench of garbage and funnel cakes wafted over the fairground. Actually, the latter wasn’t bad. He made a note to himself to get some.

Someone grabbed his arm forcefully. 

“Hey!” he exclaimed.

There were two types of touches in this world: Jaime and not Jaime. And this was _not_ Jaime.

“Let me go!” He twisted and wrenched his arm free.

A woman—middle-aged, suburban-sounding—replied, “Excuse me, I was trying to help.”

“Help who?” Bart asked.

“You, of course!”

“I don’t need your help,” he shot back.

“What about that other guy?” the woman countered. 

“That’s my boyfriend,” Bart said. “And he wasn’t helping me, he was talking to me.”

The lady huffed and stormed off, muttering something about “ungrateful young people”. Bart crossed his arms and scowled.

This time, a gentler, warmer hand touched his arm.

“Something up, _amor_?”

Bart explained what happened. Jaime sighed sadly and replied, “That’s ableism. I’m sorry that had to happen, _cariño_.”

The speedster tilted his head. “ _What_ –ism?”

“A-B-L-E-I-S-M,” Jaime spelled out. “It’s stereotyping or discriminating based on disability.”

Bart shook his head incredulously. “We didn’t have this back in my day either.”

“The past is a complicated place, _mi amor_.”

“You tell me,” Bart said. “Now, I smelled funnel cake somewhere…”

* * *

A quiet apartment was not something twenty-five-year-old Bart was accustomed to coming home to. He worked later shifts and could always count on sizzling sauteé pans or the greasy smell of takeout to greet him. Jaime would pick him up, twirl him around, and place an “I missed you” kiss on his lips. 

But there was none of that.

Eight paces.

Nine paces.

Ten.

The silence was deafening. A chill ran down his spine and Bart had to actively keep from thinking the worst. His hand brushed the marble counter in the kitchen.

_“Check the fridge.”_

Bart gulped and opened the refrigerator. His hands skimmed over raw ingredients—milk, lettuce, eggs, tomatoes, frozen berries. They only ever had the basic components of food—never leftovers. It brought into question why they even bothered buying Tupperwares. 

His knuckle bumped against something hard and not food. Bart gingerly picked it up. 

It was a wooden cube the size of a basketball. The box was smooth all over the first time he inspected it. It smelled like sawdust and wood glue. 

When Bart ran his hands over it a second time, he began to notice tiny details—a serrated ridge along one corner, a staple-sized indent in the center of one face. A sentence was carved into the opposite face.

⠠⠊ ⠝⠑⠧⠑⠗ ⠎⠁⠺ ⠍⠽⠎⠑⠇⠋ ⠁⠎ ⠎⠕⠍⠑⠕⠝⠑ ⠺⠕⠗⠞⠓ ⠋⠊⠛⠓⠞⠊⠝⠛ ⠋⠕⠗

_“I never saw myself as someone worth fighting for.”_

A tiny, foil-like tab stuck out from the top like a tongue. Wait… was that Reach metal? 

If he wasn’t confused before, he was now. Bart pushed the ridges up with one finger, slotted another one’s nail into the indent, and pulled the tab. 

The panels fell apart and what landed in Bart’s hand was… another box.

Surrounding five sides, like gift wrap, was laminated paper. It felt almost like… 

Bart’s eyes widened. Typed onto each sheet were words. Scenes. Encased in raised speech bubbles and lines that formed panels and painted pictures. Daredevil and Hawkeye, taking on evil together. 

Carved onto the empty sixth side was another sentence.

⠠⠊ ⠙⠊⠙⠝⠞ ⠞⠓⠊⠝⠅ ⠁⠝⠽⠕⠝⠑ ⠺⠕⠥⠇⠙ ⠺⠁⠝⠞ ⠍⠑ ⠋⠕⠗ ⠺⠓⠕ ⠠⠊ ⠁⠍

_“I didn’t think anyone would want me for who I am.”_

This time, it was easier to open. Bart simply pushed down on the panel and the sides came apart. He caught the third box.

Hot-glued to it was a faux silk bowtie, running cool under his fingers. It wrapped around the entire box, save for one face.

⠠⠃⠥⠞ ⠽⠕⠥ ⠉⠁⠍⠑ ⠁⠇⠕⠝⠛ ⠁⠝⠙ ⠉⠓⠁⠝⠛⠑⠙ ⠞⠓⠁⠞

_“But you came along and changed that.”_

Like the ribbon on a birthday present, the bowtie unraveled when Bart tugged it. 

Lo and behold, there was _another_ box. Bart snorted, no longer bewildered, but amused.

⠠⠊ ⠇⠕⠧⠑ ⠞⠁⠇⠅⠊⠝⠛ ⠞⠕ ⠽⠕⠥

_“I love talking to you.”_

Bart ran his hands around, searching for a tab to pull or panel to push. What he found instead were long, trench-like grooves across the entire cube, as if it was cracked desert soil. The lines formed sharp polygons, like the box was a sky and… 

Fumbling, Bart turned it back over to the Braille side. When he traced his fingers over, he realized they weren’t just dots, but _pegs_. He slid them along the grooves and pushed them into circular notches. 

When he pushed the last one—the North Star—into place, he could hear the clicking mechanism at work. The front slid open and he fell into a rhythm.

A spicy scent—varnish mixed with cayenne. A twist-off top.

⠠⠊ ⠇⠕⠧⠑ ⠓⠕⠺ ⠊⠍⠏⠥⠇⠎⠊⠧⠑ ⠽⠕⠥ ⠁⠗⠑

_“I love how impulsive you are.”_

Rough bark. A charred smell. Sliding bars with a precise configuration.

⠠⠊ ⠇⠕⠧⠑ ⠞⠓⠁⠞ ⠠⠊ ⠉⠁⠝ ⠎⠓⠁⠗⠑ ⠁⠝⠽⠞⠓⠊⠝⠛ ⠺⠊⠞⠓ ⠽⠕⠥

“I love that I can share anything with you.”

Worn leather. Tough straight stitches. The _click-click-clack_ of a combination lock.

⠠⠽⠕⠥⠗⠑ ⠃⠗⠁⠧⠑

_“You’re brave.”_

Pine needles were woven like a basket. Ice sheets shaped like snowflakes— _so that’s why it was in the fridge_. Gingerbread and candy cane extract. Hanging from it, a pull tab made of mistletoe. 

⠠⠽⠕⠥⠗⠑ ⠋⠥⠝⠝⠽

_“You’re funny.”_

A layer of cloud-like cotton. The sweet smell of a sugar-water mist. One face rotating like a Rubik’s cube. How long did this take to build?

⠠⠽⠕⠥⠗⠑ ⠊⠝⠉⠗⠑⠙⠊⠃⠇⠽ ⠎⠍⠁⠗⠞

_“You’re incredibly smart.”_

Plastic flaps, like shutter glasses. A tiny brass key hidden beneath one; a rainbow-shaped lock on the other side. 

⠠⠊ ⠉⠁⠝⠞ ⠏⠥⠞ ⠊⠝⠞⠕ ⠺⠕⠗⠙⠎ ⠓⠕⠺ ⠇⠥⠉⠅⠽ ⠠⠊ ⠁⠍ ⠞⠕ ⠓⠁⠧⠑ ⠽⠕⠥

_“I can’t put into words how lucky I am to have you.”_

There were no more boxes left; only a scroll of paper tied with thread. The writing was on the outside. Something was wrapped inside.

⠠⠞⠓⠑⠗⠑⠎ ⠕⠝⠇⠽ ⠕⠝⠑ ⠞⠓⠊⠝⠛ ⠇⠑⠋⠞ ⠞⠕ ⠁⠎⠅

_“There’s only one thing left to ask…”_

Bart’s breathing quickened. His heart sped up. He moved quickly, but it felt like his fingers were swimming through quicksand. Fingers pinching the end of the string, he pulled. 

Like a tapestry, the paper unrolled. What fell into his palm was unmistakable.

A shoulder tap. Two, to be exact. Bart whirled around just as Jaime took his hand and dropped to one knee.

Jaime tapped, “Bart Allen, will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”

Bart was already nodding furiously before Jaime even finished the question, tears pricking his eyes. He threw himself into Jaime’s arms, knowing full well that Jaime would catch him. 

They were flying again. In the middle of the kitchen, Bart was floating on a cloud as Jaime twirled him around. When their lips collided, Bart knew exactly what the feeling was.

It was lips waltzing to a symphony of cherry balm and salty potato chips. 

It was hickory smoke, crushed chili peppers, the new book smell. 

It was sand under fingernails, sticky campfire marshmallows, prickly pine needles. 

It was free-falling with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Why* the f–ck is this so much longer than the last chapter?
> 
> Also, my stories tend to take the vibe of whatever song I listen to on repeat, which was "Brand New" by Ben Rector.

**Author's Note:**

> While I did as much research as I possibly could, I am neither blind nor deaf so I cannot speak for those experiences with a hundred percent certainty. Also, before you guys go off in the comments, I am aware that deaf-blind people communicate via touch signaling or pro-tactile sign language, however, this story focuses on two specific individuals and thus does not reflect the entire community. Jaime’s woodshop scene is (very loosely) based on my experience as a disabled queer person and Bart’s jokes come directly from my blind classmate who was the class clown. The imagery was vaguely inspired by All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.


End file.
